


The Seventh Life

by Klayr_de_Gall



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Allhallowtide, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Cursed!Billy, Curses, Enemies to Lovers, Halloween, Homophobic Language, Language of Flowers, M/M, Nightmares, Old Magic, Steve is a Cat-Person, Wandless Magic, Witch!Steve, blowjob, how not to communicate, how to flirt without being an asshole - a guide not written by Billy Hargrove, samhein - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klayr_de_Gall/pseuds/Klayr_de_Gall
Summary: With Allhallowtide looming two nights over, Steve feels restless and irritated, a bit on edge. The pull of that powerful event makes his bones arch stronger every year. The last thing he needs is some Californian Hotshot swaggering into his life, carrying the smell of trouble and a curse.





	1. Familiar Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> After more than a year I'm finally back to writing again!  
Thanks to the amazing [ImNeitherNor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/pseuds/ImNeitherNor) and the AU we created here is my first Harringrove Fic!
> 
> I don't really have as much knowledge about witchcraft as I would like but was, of course, browsing source material while writing this. Funny enough "The Seventh Life" is my second story that has the language of flowers strongly woven in it. Who would have guessed that was my thing. XD  
If you want a look at Steves Tattoos, [there is Art!](https://klayr-de-gall.tumblr.com/post/188414161731/the-seventh-life-a-harringrove-fic-ao3) He hasn't gotten the ones on his nack yet.
> 
> Thanks for the beta to [Page_Of_Pumpkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Page_Of_Pumpkins/pseuds/Page_Of_Pumpkins)
> 
> Enjoy!

'Trouble.' - that’s all Steve can think while his eyes follow the new guy swagger over the parking lot into the direction of their high-school. Everything about him screams bravado. All the students mingling around outside track him as he walks – maybe because of his jeans that seem two numbers too small for his ass. It's tempting to look, and Steve gives into that particular itch for a moment before he snorts. The nice back view is muddled by a pretentious mullet; dishwater-blonde and curly. This is not New York's Hipster-scene.

“Trouble.” Steve says it out loud this time, making Nancy look up from his chicken-scratch again.

“Who? The new guy?”

With a nod he sinks back into the driver-seat of the beemer, side-eyeing her. Whenever Nancy pinches here brows like this, he wants to cross his arms, wants to get defensive but he doesn't; Steve taps his fingers against the steering wheel instead. Relaxed. Easy.

“Yeah. Look how he walks. That screams trouble. He will have been in two fistfights before the end of the day, I tell you, Nance.”

Without actually rolling her eyes she gives him her best eye roll-look and Steve gets the meaning behind the look. He is no fortune-teller, but he is good with people. And he is absolutely sure that the new face showing up in Hawkins in the middle of the term will cause problems. So sure he can nearly taste it, like thick felt on his tongue.

“It's just some new guy, Steve.”

Her deep brown eyes search his face for a moment, seem to scold him for interrupting her from her task of helping him. Scolding him for jumping on the first chance of distraction. Steve breathes in a deep sigh, reaching out and tucking the twig of lavender from her chocolate hair. He had placed it there the moment she got in his car when he picked her up but lavender didn't mix well with irritation. With a smile he nestles a dried marigold into the soft curl above her eyebrow, getting Nancy to roll her eyes finally; the expression filled with fondness.

“How can you remember all the rules that come with - “, her wide, sweeping hand gesture points at all of him. “- being you. But not follow a train of thoughts in your essay without getting sidetracked?”

He can only shrug and winks at her, while sliding the softly smelling lavender behind his own ear; above the herbal cigarette. His girlfriend is the only person outside his family that knows, that he trusted enough to tell the secret too. Whispered between them on a cold night, huddled together outside in the soft blue glow of his pool, with the horrors of November still lurking close in every shadow. Not even Tommy and Carol knew. Those two couldn't keep a secret to save their lives.

“Beats me. Is it that bad?”

With patience, Nancy tries to explain the weaknesses of his essay, but Steve is distracted and she can sense that too. Talking or even thinking about his future – or the seemingly lack thereof - gets him antsy. How much easier it would have been in the past. Just settling in a little hut in the deep woods, with an herbal garden and a goat. Getting burned on a stake at twenty-five. Living the dream.

After he pressed a kiss on Nancy's cheek as a thank you, getting an arm-pat that feels more patronizing then affectionate in return, they get both out of the car. Steve tugs the sleeves of his blue cardigan over his knuckles, sighing a little. He loves the cold weather setting in just for the opportunity to layer up from head to toe without people giving him inquiring looks for never wearing a t-shirt the past year, only rolling up his sleeves to his elbows; even in the unbearable heat of Hawkins summer. Getting some protective runes tattooed on his upper arms had felt like a great ‘fuck you’ to his father back in spring, but it was hard to see that appeal in 85.6° heat. Besides, not getting suspended from school for indecency was an all around good idea.

Tucking the cigarette between his lips without lighting it, Steve follows his girlfriend to the school entrance, where Jonathan Byers waits to greet them-  
Her. The way Nancy envelopes the lanky teen into an intimate hug and a soft smile, that lets Steve forget about the newcomer; while he falls behind on the steps, rustling dead leaves dancing around his feet.

'Trouble.', he thinks.

~~*~~

Steve has lunch all by himself, tucked away in a corner of the cafeteria. The macaroni on the plate before him was cold by now, while he pushed the last remaining meatball around, contemplating if it was as tasteless as the others he had already eaten.

With Allhallowtide looming two nights over, he felt restless and irritated, a bit on edge. The pull of that powerful event makes his bones ache stronger every year. Now that there are Deaths to remember that have actually concerned him, Steve feels heavier then giddy for these three days. He was used to his mother not being home for a tradition, she had only passed down to him to liberate herself of that burden. But Barbara Holland looking at him from the other side of the too thin curtain, always reaching out in his peripheral vision at night, always screaming – that was a new experience he would rather have missed out on.

Having no one to talk about this – how thin the barrier between the world seems this year, how the shadows appear to crawl with veins and the smell of rot blowing in every breeze – makes him anxious and nervous. Steve can't really remember if this had to be this way. He has distant echoes of the smell of nutmeg and dried anise woven around the memory of him and his mother lighting a fire behind the house; celebrating Samhain as it should be. But it all feels like a dream.

Spending time with Nancy seems to help to calm down the restlessness and gloom; her beautiful eyes the best distraction. Even if that meant he had to sit at dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Holland, both so hopeful while they told them about hiring a private detective to find their missing daughter, while Barb’s presence hovered behind him, always out of sight, making the hairs on his neck prickle, wailing so loud it drowned out the voice of her mother. No KFC was good enough for that to not haunt his dreams.

Not that Nancy was here right now. After English lit, he had made a joke to her to lighten the mood. That this must be the feelings girls experience when describing having mood-swings on their period. She was ignoring him since. To be fair – he should have seen that coming.  
“Ohhh! Your princess finally abandoned you too, Stevie?”

Steve gives the pathetic meatball one last poke before he looks up into Tommy's freckled face.  
“You know she puts out with Byers, right? Not even behind your back. You're just a sad excuse of a sugar daddy, Harrington.”

“Always so charming, Tommy.” Steve huffs a strand of his hair away from his face just to have it fall back down against his brow. They have given each other wide beardths for the last year, aside from the occasional slur in the halls or a shove in the gym. But today, Tommy wants more than to pick on him, he is looking for a fight. The new guy that's just coming over with Carol in tow might have something to do with that. Billy Hargrove from California. “Finally, something to look at in our ditch”, that's what Veronica had whispered to him yesterday in Econ.

“Hi Carol.”, greets Steve instead of reacting to any of the insults, pissing Tommy off even more. She smells of the lilac-perfume he made for her two years ago. A beacon of natural smell in between all the chemicals that weave around in a school full of peacocking teenagers. The short nod and hint of a smile she gives him makes him hope that he still can fix things. At least with Carol. With Tommy, not so much.

“So pathetic that you let her get away fucking with the freak. Or do you let him fuck you too? Like a fucking fag?”

Steve just looks up at him unimpressed, waiting for the next boring insult on Tommy's list just so he can mouth off in front of his new friend. He didn't expect Hargrove grabbing Tommy by the neck, showing him face first down onto the table, making him nosedive into Steve's cold lunch.

His chair screeches on the gray tiles as Steve scrambles to back away from the table, narrowly avoiding greasy macaroni down his sky-blue polo.

“What the-- Fuck!! Hargrove, you fucking asshole!” Tommy sounds angry and mean, tries to get to the teen behind him who's still holding him by the collar, pulling him up into an uncomfortable position.

“If I catch you talking like that again, you are dead, Hill,'' Hargrove snarls into his ear, pulling his hair hard. Then Tommy's face is pressed back into the food and Hargrove honest to god growls, deep and low, till he stops to struggle, just accepts it. A crowd has gathered around them, wide-eyes, already whispering. Just like that the new guy has everyone's respect, knocking down an asshole like Tommy without breaking a sweat. They duck like frightened deer when Billy looks around the students before his eyes single in on Steve.  
A cold shudder runs down Steve's back as impossible blue eyes land on him. There is something loaded in the air, tasting metallic and prickly on his tongue when Steve swipes it over his bottom lip in a short nervous tick. Like magic, but unwanted, fouler. Like a curse. Hargrove's jaw works strains with words he doesn't say. Instead, he turns around and stalks back to his own table, the crowd scattering like prey.

Steve's eyes are glued to his back. No way he did misread the air around him, even from a few feet away. There is a curse clinging to Billy Hargrove, withered down with age. Something powerful and deep that makes Steves skin prickle.

~~*~~

It's late. The chilling October night presses against his back, even when the heat of the pool rises up at him, warming his front. That he wears wet swim-trunks while sitting on the edge, legs still dangling in the water and his hair dripping cooling water onto his back might also be a reason for the goosebumps all over his body. Steve draws his shoulder in, throws some more lemon balm leaves into the pool.

His parents won't be back till the middle of November; they fucked off to Cleveland for one of his father’s conferences, and combining that with a vacation to god-knows-where after. For once Steve would have liked to come with them, taking his old man's disappointment over how thin and transparent the borders to the other side are turning the more Samhain approaches.

But at least at home he can spice the pool with his favorite herbs and smells, strong enough the block out the odor of rot and dead in the air. The Kids call it the Upside-Down, Nancy had told him: a place of monsters. And they are not wrong, but monsters are not the only thing that lurks in the shadows. There is so much more – so much worse, that presses and presses and presses against the gossamer veil that was a thick curtain weeks ago, searching for a tear, a disturbance in the mash.

Even now, drunk on two beers and a bit high of some weed he got from Jonathan, he sees them present in every shadow. Never still. Never completely silent. Only when Steve directly looks into the darkness, then the presences quiet down a bit. They hate to be seen, shying away from his ability – a third eye, his mother called it long ago. Right now he would give a lot to be just normal.

A rustle rips Steve right out of his self-pity, making him grab beside himself, reaching for a nailed bat that's still in the trunk of his car – Fuck!

“Who's there?”

Another rustle on the other side of the pool. Is there a shadow between the bushes or is that only a trick of the light and the warm mist hanging over the pool?

“Hey!?”

It might not be Steve's smartest idea to throw his nearly empty can of beer into the direction of the rustle, hitting a tree with a noise that sounds way too loud for the airy silence of the night. The feral hiss that follows startles him so badly, he falls into the pool.

Coughing and spitting, Steve resurfaces, only to be greeted with the blurry image of some animal stalking around the pool, elegant and sleek. Trying not to drown while fear settles like a freezing cold into his bones, Steve wipes his wet hair back from his eyes, blinks. Blinks again. A black cat blinks back.

“Fuck! Oh my god...”

Paddling to the edge of the pool and grabbing on for support, Steve's face feels hot from embarrassment. His feline visitor seems to judge him, staring him down with unusual cold blue eyes. There is a wet patch on its fur that smells strongly of beer.

“Shit. Where did you come from, gorgeous? I've never seen you around.”

Steve treads water while the cat leans forward, sniffing at his hair, nibbling on a leave of lemon balm that got stuck there. It looks offended for a moment, before it wanders off, jumping on top of one of the lounger chairs. Plopping down on Steve's towel with what can only be described as an absolute smug look.

“Jeez, you scared the shit out of me. You can't just sneak up on people like that.” With a huff Steve pulls himself from the water and shakes some droplets out of his hair, making the cat hiss again when it gets showered.

“Yeah, sorry.” He grabs the pet and sets it down, instantly grateful that the animal doesn't claw at him immediately. Some infected scratches are the last thing he needs right now. While quickly toweling down, the black cat rubs up against his leg; smearing the beer-stain all against his skin.

“Wow, you’re a real little prick, are you? Sorry about that. I thought you were-” He cuts himself off, realizing that it would be crazy to spill his fears to some strange and probably feral cat. Steve sights and crouches down, scratching between black twitching ears. Maybe not that feral after all.

“Come on, Lovely. I get you all cleaned up and proper for wherever you were going, hm?”

The soft purring noises his attention rouses from the cat makes Steve coos a bit. He really likes cats, it's probably in his genetic makeup. And this one is really soft and beautiful. On the larger side, with silky fur that's a bit longish and fluffing and stunning blue eyes. A color like this is not ordinary in cats and the light from the pool reflects in them like fragments of ice. He really wonders where the cat came from.

He scoops the animal up in his towel, an unnecessary safety measure because the cat just lets it happen, contently leaning into his chest. His mother would flip a table if she would know, but his mother is not here, so he takes the feline inside with him and up to his room. No use in having a cat run around the house. There is still a chance it would not be well behaved. Only when Steve sets it down on top of his desk, he notices some red stains on his towel. No need for him to look closer, away from the chlorine smell of the pool; the blood is clearly tangible in the air.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?”

He tries to inspect the damage, a deep cut hidden by black fur on the right front leg. But the moment he wants to get a better look, the cat snarls at him, backing up. It puffs it’s soft fur, seeming to grow twice as large.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Don't make such a fuss, god. I just want to help you!”

But it's clear such a wound could not have been inflicted by a sloppily thrown empty beer-can. Maybe a fight with another animal? Or some thorns.

Steve leaves the cat on his desk, let's it settle down from its defensive behavior. While he squirms out of his wet trunks and puts some shorts and an old threadbare shirt on, he muses what to do. His visitor seemed friendly enough, but he gets why having a stranger look at your wounds wasn't such a hot option. He only wants to help, but how should an animal know that. Still, Steve can only wonder if the cat had approached him because it wanted help. Animals were way better in sensing what he was then humans.

The cat is intensely staring at him when he turns back around, its eyes focused and sharp. involuntarily, Steve's eyebrow climbs toward his hairline. Cats are just so weird.

“Alright, listen.” He plants himself down into his desk-chair under watchful eyes, only feeling a bit dump for talking to a pet that clearly won't answer. “I'll clean the beer of you because you smell disgusting. And if that goes well, I have a look at your leg, too. Sounds good?”

Without any hurry, Steve offers his open palm to the cat, as non threatening as he can. He gets sniffed at, then some needle-sharp teeth close around the flash of his thumb. The bite doesn't really hurt, it seems more of a warning if anything and he stays still trough it. With a satisfied look, the cat flops down, head hitting Steve's hand and starts to purr loudly.

“Aren't you a cute little shit.”, Steve sights with an eye roll.

He spends the next half hour grooming and cleaning the black fur, sometimes getting sidetracked with just scratching and petting. Rambling to himself – mostly about the mysterious origins of his new friend – he rubs some vanilla into the soft fur, just something to get rid of the last lingering whiff of beer. Without hesitation, he grabs straight for the hurt leg. The cat tenses up a bit, but otherwise just blinks at him content and slow and lets Steve put some gamander ointment on the ragged cut. He can only wonder what happened; maybe some kid had a go at it with a rock or something.

“Wasn't that bad, right?”

The cat sniffs at the substance covering his lag and gags a bit, making Steve laugh. Then he has to scramble to stop it from licking the paste off. It's a bit of a struggle to cover the healing wound up with gauze while the cat seems to have decided that the time of cooperation is up, but he manages.

Steve packs up his herbs and goes downstairs to get some dinner. Oatmeal with nuts it is for tonight because that little distraction had run way too late, so most places you can order from in Hawkins are already closed. And he most definitely won't try to cook. When he comes back upstairs, the cat has settled down on his bed, spread out as if it was trying to take up as much space as possible. The feline had a lot of big-jerk energy, but Steve was not heartless enough to just kick it out. No hurt in having company for one night. He could bring the cat to the shelter on his way to school.

Now he only had to figure out how to reclaim his bed.

~~*~~

The black cat is gone when Steve wakes up, only leaving some hairs on his pillow and the strong smell of vanilla in the air. It's nowhere in the house. By the time he checked every room in the large house, then realized that there was no way the feline could have gotten out and double-checked everywhere again; Steve is late for school. He finds a twig of white heather knotted into his hair on his way out the door.

Cats are so fucking weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had as much fun reading about Steve the Witch as I had writing about him! Thanks for sticking with me. Let me know what you think! If you are interested in all the meanings of the flowers and herbs that Steve uses in this chapter, I answered a comment about that, check down below! <3 Comments and Feedback are always appreciated! <3


	2. Season of the Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as Halloween-parties went, this one was a total disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have chapter two on time for spooky season! The idiots getting close and personal, whooho!
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks for the fic! The support means so much to me! I'm still floored that all of you would send me so much love for this little monster here! Love you all!
> 
> **Warning**  
\- homophobic slurs  
\- bit of grossness but not really detailed stuff (but if even the mention of vomit might tick you off, then consider yourself warned)
> 
> Also a quick note that the nubers of chapters did go up and the tags were edited a bit, so have a quick look!
> 
> Thanks for the beta to [gideongrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideongrace/pseuds/gideongrace)

As far as Halloween-parties went, this one was a total disaster. Not that it was Tina's fault. The girl had really tried. There was an endless supply of booze, uninspired Halloween-themed foods and snacks and a lot of horny teens in hastily thrown together closet-costumes. All of this had promised a good time or at least some distraction and Steve had hoped it would do him and Nancy some good to come here. Just mingle, without thinking about any worries, acting their age for once. Maybe getting drunk. Maybe getting laid.

But something was off tonight. It had been such a big interference with Steve's general senses that he felt slightly ill all evening, getting distracted with every unusual noise and every fleeting shadow. While getting ready for the party he had felt something looming, something so powerful and evil it had nearly knocked him on his ass. His heartbeat had skyrocketed as if in response to being chased and he felt crippling fear pulsing through his veins. But it had been over as fast as it started. The light in his room seemed to brighten up, the shadows retreating back into the corners while the cheers and screams from the kids Trick or Treating filtered through his window. Steve knew with certainty that this experience hadn’t been his own. He had picked up on someone else. The emotion of being hunted and scared by a shadowy presence had been so immense that his own senses had picked it up and tuned into it like some weird radio. But whatever had been looming was gone, leaving a straining dent in the thin veil and an uneasy feeling in the air.

Steve's mind had wandered back to this moment all night. He had been too distracted to really dance or mingle. And he had certainly been too distracted to notice that Nancy was refilling her red plastic cup every chance she got, getting tipsy and then increasingly more drunk by the minute. For all the possible outcomes he imagined for this night, getting his heart broken in a stranger's bathroom by the woman he envisioned growing old with hadn't been on his list. At all.

But now Steve was standing downstairs, feeling alone in the middle of all the sweaty bodies pressing against him. The smell and the stickiness of whatever fruit punch they'd had was still clinging to his fingers from when Nancy had slushed it all over both of them, the “Bullshit” she had spat in his face so carelessly still ringing loud in his ears, bouncing around in his head that felt otherwise empty. No amount of rubbing and blinking could ease the burning sting of his eyes. When he noticed Jonathan leading a still swaying Nancy down the stairs and out of the house, his arms around her petite frame and her head lolling against his shoulder, Steve had to duck out of the back door, fleeing to the yard. Outside was blessedly empty besides an old keg standing there, abandoned after the fun had been over. In no way would he be able to take the humiliation on a fragile day like this that would come with breaking down sobbing in front of all his classmates and old friends.

The night air stung cold on his burning face and Steve took three big breaths, holding the air in and exhaling slowly through his nose in such a bone-deep sigh that it made his whole body shudder. The consideration to go home crossed his mind, but thinking about his dark house and the eerie silence clinging to every room made Steve drop that thought like it could burn him. In no way would he be able to get through All Saints' Eve without a proper distraction. Alcohol wouldn't have been his preferred choice just an hour ago, but spending some fun times with his girlfriend – ex-girlfriend? - was definitely out of the picture.

“Lookin’ all that dark and gloomy, Stevie?”

Tommy hooks his chin over Steve's shoulder from behind, making him jump in surprise. He can hear Hill's teeth snapping shut with a loud click because of the violent jostling and Tommy mutters a bit, taking a step back. The freckled teen is accompanied by Hargrove – the new Keg-King, congratulations to that very important achievement – who hovers just a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over Steve's hunched form and pale features. Steve can only hope that his face doesn't give away how miserable he really feels, but it's an idle wish. He knows too well that his face is an open book. Always has been. If he's lucky, Hargrove is just as oblivious to his heartache as Tommy is.

His old friend is already a good way down the road to being spectacularly wasted and probably also higher than a kite. The strong smell of booze and weed is as dead a giveaway as how blotched red Tommy's cheeks are, his freckles practically glowing against the darkened skin.

“Awww, you look all sad. What, ya dog died or something? No, wait! The Princess is fuckin 'round with the freak right now? Ohhh, that's low.”

“Not in the mood, Tommy. Just fuck off.”

Steve tries to push Tommy off, too tired and done to deal with his crap right now. The strong smell of cheap alcohol on his breath doesn't help, either. Of course, the other boy takes his defensiveness as proof and starts to cackle in the meanest way possible. The temptation to just topple him over is really strong. Steve would probably only need a little push and Tommy would go down. That idiot is just too drunk. The amused look on Hargrove's face suggests some kind of similar train of thought. And opposite to Steve, Billy seems not to possess any pity or restraint because he casually kicks Tommy in the back of his knees, making the drunk teen flop to the ground like he's been shot.

The way Tommy just lies there, probably wondering what the fuck happened, forces a little giggle from Steve's lips. Looking immensely pleased with himself, Hargrove steps over the fallen teen and closer to Steve’s side. But the threat Steve expects doesn't come, instead the new kid bumps shoulders with him, producing a new beer bottle from the pocket of his leather jacket and handing it to Steve after he pops the lid off with his car keys. After the hostile stare-down that had happened earlier, the gesture feels weirdly friendly.

Because he just saw Hargrove open the bottle, Steve takes it with a little thankful nod. Maybe he should feel bad for thinking it, but it's certainly not beyond Tommy to put drugs in someone's drink just to have a good laugh. Billy is standing beside him, cackling while kicking Tommy's arm out from under him again, making him fall back into the grass. If he were to stand up straight, he probably has a few inches on him, Steve thinks but he resists the temptation. Up this close, it's hard to concentrate on anything other than the weird mixture of smells that cling to Hargrove. There is the obvious scent of beer, cigarette smoke and leather. Then lingers the eye-watering stink of his chemical cologne. Billy probably thinks that synthetic stuff smells nice, but Steve has the tremendous urge to throw him into a pool or a lake. Even a smelly old pond would be more preferable than that! A little whiff of something sweet mixes with all of it, kinda vanilla-like, maybe the perfume of the last girl that rubbed herself all up against him. And over everything, the old, foul stench of the curse. The combination of all of it is overwhelming and makes Steve a bit ill.

“Tommy! Stop making out with the ground!” Carol staggers out of the back door whining. She's as drunk as her boyfriend, who is currently halfway up on his knees. Distracted by her, Tommy looks up and slips again, prompting Carol to just throw herself on top of him. They roll around in the grass, yelling unintelligible slurs at each other before starting a make-out-session. Steve isn't even surprised.

“Ugh, dumbasses. C'mon, let's get you a drunk, Pretty Boy.”

Surprised by the sudden tug on his arm, Steve has very little option but to stumble behind Hargrove, getting pulled back into the loud music inside the house and the press of warm, sweaty bodies.

~~*~~

Drowning himself in cheap beer and getting lost in crystal-blue eyes that pay way more attention to Steve then he can handle proves itself to be a very effective method of distraction. Billy is actually pretty decent company if you turn a blind eye on his mile-high attitude problem. He sneers at everyone that looks at him funny and is quick to insult people. The way he manhandles Steve around the party, checking and double-checking that he's still following him around is not Steve's favorite thing, either. It could be cute, but his arm will just be sore tomorrow from all the pulling and pushing. Whenever Steve's bottle or plastic cup is empty, Hargrove replaces it with something similarly alcoholic and he has long since given up on protesting over it. He  _ wants _ to get wasted after all.

Steve has to wonder if that's just Hargrove's twisted way of flirting or if the curse is leading his actions in an unconscious way. Both explanations wouldn't be too surprising. It's most likely that the dark magic pulsing in Billy's body is reacting to Steve's natural talents. It wasn't unheard off, that a hexed person would recoil from a witch without any reason or any knowledge about their power. Having it the other way around – being drawn in – is not that common but not unheard of, either. Hard to imagine any other reason for the way Billy seems to press close to him all the time, his fingers always touching skin. A tickling whisper along his neck when he slings his arm across Steve's shoulder, a little brush whenever their hands linger close.

Every time Steve's looks up after one of those touches Hargrove leers at him, tongue always hanging out of his mouth like a panting dog. It's distracting, yes. But fucking shit is it also confusing.

The behavior is also intoxicating as hell. Steve is just too drunk to care that the way he leans back into every contact might look needy. Billy is solid and warm, feels real in a way that every other person and event tonight had not. The smell of the old malediction is still bothersome, sometimes catching Steve off guard when he turns to the blonde haired teen too fast. But as unpleasant as it is, it conceals the foul rotting smell of the first night of Allhallowtide that has started to creep in through the doors and windows. Pressed up close to Billy like this, he could forget all the ghosts of the past.

Noticing the expectant look on Hargrove's face, Steve blinks, wildly aware that he probably has missed something the other boy has said.

“What?”

Hargrove snickers over his one syllable response, but doesn't sound that much more eloquent when he speaks.

“You checked out on me, Princess? Said we could go outside. Find a dark corner.”

Steve blinks again, having some trouble processing all the information packed in those three little sentences. He wonders for just a moment if the innuendo was only by accident, then Billy throws him a really flirtatious wink, biting his bottom-lip for show. Not a mistake, then.

“... Not a princess,” is the answer Steve finally settles on.

Of course that makes Hargrove laugh while he gets up, pulling Steve along again. It's late and some guests have already left the party. Everyone is spectacularly wasted and whoever has scored a date has either gone upstairs or home. Tommy – who had bothered them a few times throughout the night – is nowhere to be seen and the two of them get through the kitchen and out into the backyard without any obstacles.

The moment they round the corner of the house, Hargrove presses him up against the wall under the kitchen window, going straight for his neck. The way he presses the flat of his entire tongue against Steve's pulse makes Steve's knees go weak and he shudders, closing his eyes.

“Fuck. Wanted to get my mouth on you for days," Billy growls into his ear. He sounds great up close, breathless and raw.

“Yeah? We've only known each other for two days.”

Steve can't help but tease him a little because that statement sounds kind of ridiculous. Billy had only shown up in Hawkins on Monday – two days ago.

“First moment I saw you. I just... I just wanted.”

Stunned by his own honesty, the blonde ducks his head, scowling a little. It's most definitely the curse that made Hargrove feel attraction towards him. But Steve is way too drunk and heartbroken to complain about the circumstances or realize that the way this encounter is progressing might not be the best idea. To distract Billy and himself, he tangles his finger in Billy's soft blonde curls and tucks him near so they can breathe the same air.

“What else do you want, big guy?” Steve's voice is a quiet purr between them. He can feel Billy's shuddering exhale across his lips. Then a hand settles on Steve's shoulder and he's pushed down, the meaning all too clear.

Not too graceful, Steve drops to his knees in front of the blonde. He feels dizzy and wobbly and being nearer to the ground sounds like a good idea after all. The blue in Billy's eyes is nearly completely blown out by his dilated pupils and he licks his tongue messily the moment their eyes meet. It makes Steve huff a little, his verbal equivalent to an eye-roll. But it doesn't stop him from reaching for Billy's fly, wrestling with the beer-slicked leather. The bulk already straining the fabric doesn't help, either. When the zipper doesn't budge, Steve gives a frustrated groan, pressing his cheek to Billy's still confined dick.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington.”

The breathy curse sounds like praise, so Steve repeats the motion, marveling in the smooth glide of the cool lather against his overheated cheek.

“God, you're so wasted. Here, let me.” The studs on Hargrove's fingerless gloves catch on Steve's hair when Billy runs his fingers through it, making Steve whine and lean back on his knees. The dampness of the cold ground is already seeping through Steve's dark jeans and his legs start to feel numb but he can't look away while Billy pulls down the zipper, its' teeth glinting sharply in the light that's falling through the window above them.

Steve leans in, wetting his lips in anticipation. He breathes in deep, taking in Billy's smell and then -

\- he leans to the side and throws up the whole content of his stomach. It's mostly beer and punch, but an alarming amount. Billy just stands there frozen to the spot with Steve's hands still holding onto his hips while he coughs and sputters.

“What the... did you just-” Hargrove starts, sounding completely put out and dumbfounded.

“Did you... put cologne on your fucking dick? The fuck?” Steve talks over him.

He heaves one more time, spitting out the rest of the sour taste on his tongue. Avoiding the puddle of spit and puke, he falls on his back into the grass. The absurdity of this whole situation combined with the offended look on Hargrove's handsome face forces a giggle out of him. The sound seems too loud in their little bubble of seclusion.

“Shit, you don't know a lot about going down on anyone, do you? The cologne-smell is so gross, jeez.”

Billy doesn't look nearly as amused as Steve feels. He probably wouldn't either, had a guy just nearly vomited on his dick. But god damn, what did he expect, whipping out a whole perfume-store on someone with an already tender stomach from all the beer and punch?

“What? I'm not some fucking fairy, Harrington! Why should I know anything about it?”

Staring at Billy unimpressed, Steve sits up. That might just be the hurt ego talking – and really, Hargrove's pinched face suggests just that – but stupid slurs like that were just unnecessary.

“Really? Playing the “It's not gay as long as I'm not the one doing the sucking”-card on me now? Fuck. You are pathetic. I can't believe I was just going to... fuck.”

While Steve stumbles to his feet he feels suddenly ill for a different reason. Hargrove had the vibes for toxic masculinity, sure, but after all the flirting, and him putting Tommy in his place for using homophobic slurs, hearing him talk like that did sting more than just a bit. Steve was too drunk and heartbroken to deal with some asshole who probably thought touching tips would have him combust into flames.

“You know what, Hargrove? Fuck you. If it's all the same to you, go find someone else to make out with.”

Steve turns around, ready to finally go home – something he should have done hours ago – but a hand closing around his wrist holds him back. Billy pulls him back, suddenly all sharp eyes and charming grin.

“C'mon, Harrington. Don't be such a Priss. I didn't mean it.”

Slowly Steve turns back to him. He can see the victorious glint in Billy's eyes the moment the other teen thinks he's won and will get his way but then Steve puts his palm flat against Billy's tanned chest, letting his fingers slide over the warm skin. The contact feels impossibly hot under his hand and he can feel Billy's heartbeat vibrate through his fingertips.

“Yes, you did. Just another homophobic asshole.”

His words cut like ice and are spoken even colder. They strike Billy where it hurts because his brows draw together and his eyes get so much more emotional than Steve was expecting. He had suspected anger, maybe. But not this mixture of confusion and hurt. It's a fragile moment, broken far too quickly by Billy when he opens his mouth. Steve has no desire to hear more of that bullshit. A short pulse of magic from his hand and suddenly Hargrove is thrown backward. Not much more a stumble, but forceful enough to send him tumbling on his back.

Without looking at him again, Steve turns and walks away. The chaos of the night thrums under his skin and he feels raw and exposed. Using magic like this, in front of someone... he's sure he'll regret that. The moment Steve steps down from the property he breaks into a run. He needs to go home immediately. Tonight had been a stupid idea.

~~*~~

It's creeping up on 3am when Steve finally gets a nice bonfire going behind the house and can settle near it, basking in the warmth while holding a plate and sipping some hot cider. He had tried just going to sleep after coming home from the party, but the lurking feelings of dread and unease had made it impossible to find any rest. Finally he had given in to the part of him that felt the need to complete one of the rituals usually performed on Samhain to soothe the wailing spirits.

Steve has the suspicion that his baked – slightly burned, okay, he had still been too drunk when he was making them – apples won't do a lot to lay to rest the big shadow presence that seems to be looming over the woods just outside of Hawkins. It feels more like a sacrifice-type of energy. Cold and soulless, hungry for things no one would give willingly. And that is really freaking Steve out.

But the fire and his offerings seem to please everyone else that's hidden in the darkness and shadows. He doesn't feel alone in his backyard, but of course the apples stay untouched in a material sort of way.

Steve presses his mother's old wooden ceremonial mask closer to his face, making sure the shapeless form is still securely in place. He can remember making fun of it as a kid, ridiculing the way the bark and bones form some frail but otherworldly animal head. The small three-pointed antlers give it some resemblance to a deer of some kind. Now Steve is grateful for the protection it offers with all the symbols and old magic that is layered on it. His soul is safely hidden behind it, preventing any ghost from recognizing and stealing it.

Nancy had asked him once if his customs included wearing the usual pointed hat witches were portrayed with. That had only caused Steve to laugh his ass off. She probably wouldn't have expected to see any artifactual masks involved in this ritual. Nancy wouldn't have expected a lot of what would come with his heritage, for sure.

Some movement out of his peripheral vision kicks Steve out of his thoughts about his probably-not-anymore girlfriend. This time he's not surprised to spot the black cat circling the fire in a safe distance, on the edge of the light. He doesn't acknowledge the animal in any way while it explores, paying closer attention to the fire and throwing some dried broom and mountain ash berries into the flames to offer the spirits of Samhain his regards.

Probably bored, the cat saunters closer, inspecting one of the five untouched dishes with a baked apple and a glass of warm cider. The butter and sugar mix Steve used to prepare the desserts seems to smell too good to not try to taste it and the feline licks at one of the apples.

“Hey! That's not for you. Leave it, hey!”

He throws some nutmeg, hitting the cat square on the forehead to finally get it to leave the apples alone. Instead the animal wanders over to him, curiously chirping at him.

“What are you doing out so late? Shouldn't you be cozy and asleep somewhere?”

The black cat climbs on his leg and headbutts his chin – the only part of Steve's face that's uncovered. It makes him sigh and card his fingers through the cat's soft tufts of fur while he stifles a big yawn.

He has to finish his own apple first and offers a bit of it to the cat that's now comfortably sitting in his lap. The piece of fruit leaves a buttery stain on Steve's pants, the knee already flaked with mud from earlier tonight. The little bastard looks smug for making a mess before it finally munches on the treat, enjoying it.

They sit in silence for a while, only the crackling of the fire serving as background noise, the spirits pressingly silent.

With a purring and warm cat pressed up against his front, Steve finally feels ready to fall asleep on the spot. He gets up slowly and puts his own plate down, having the six plates form a protective barrier around the fire, letting it burn down unsupervised without having it causing any trouble.

The remaining servings of dessert he offered to the ghosts stay on the ground outside. They will most likely be gone by morning, consumed by animals searching for a treat in the cold autumn night but basking in the illusion that the dead had a snack always makes him feel warm.

Barbara Holland might have been a girl that enjoyed baked apples, Steve thinks to himself while he follows the black cat back into the house. He reminds himself to not forget to place the white seven-day candle he found in the pantry in the window by the front door and lights it to guide the dead to the Spirit World before he finally heads to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it!  
Thoughts and feedback are always welcome! <3
> 
> Come and chat to me on [tumblr](https://klayr-de-gall.tumblr.com/)


	3. I put a Spell on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How ‘_wanting to drive to Nancy's to apologize_’ the next day had turned into ‘_going on a hiking trip with Dustin Henderson of all people_’ had turned into ‘_fearing for the life of three kids in an old bus in the junkyard_’ is utterly beyond Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still blown away by how much love you guys throw at this fic! Thank you soooo much for it! It’s super inspiring and makes me feel all kinds of things! This chapter was fun and I hope you like it! Possessive Billy is my language!
> 
> The amazing Moodboard was done by [halefirewarrior](https://halefirewarrior.tumblr.com/) Thank you so much!
> 
> Warning:  
\- some sloppy sexy times  
\- monster fighting
> 
> Thanks for the beta to [gideongrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideongrace/pseuds/gideongrace) <3<3

“Come on, Harrington! Keep up!“

Steve barely has the time to get his arms up to try and block the shot, before he's checked into the side and stumbles to the ground, hitting his knee in the progress. Silently cursing he gets up again, feeling lightheaded and unsteady on his feet. He wipes his sweating forehead with the long sleeve of the gray shirt he's wearing under the gray team jersey , his protective tattoos itching under the clammy fabric.

“You asleep, princess?”

Billy's snarl is the only warning he gets, then the ball hits him hard in the chest. The blond teen seems to be burning today, the anger foul and tangible in the air where the curse seems to grow with his strong, unchecked emotions, throwing Steve off even more.

His left arm and shoulder still ache from yesterday night, all the pulling and dragging. The five hours sleep he got were not enough at all even after the soothing ritual he'd done. The heavy cat resting on his chest had just barely calmed him down, the concerned little licks at his chin and cheeks dragging some exhausted smiles onto his lips. But the worst of all is his broken heart, a gaping hole in his chest that seems to bleed and bleed and not stop. Without any effort, Nancy had dug her hand between Steve's ribs and ripped out everything that made him feel real. Everything that made him feel like he wasn't just useless and alone. Because if someone as perfect as Nancy Wheeler could love him, there had to be something to him, right?

A hot presence against his back made Steve aware of his surroundings again – of the fact that he was currently in possession of the ball. Billy was all plastered against him, hot and sweaty and gross, snapping his sharp teeth at him. Up until now, there had been nothing to give away that Billy remembered the end of last night, the magic involved in it, but Steve couldn't be sure, and that's putting him on edge as much as how rough and angry Billy's being today, spitting insults like venom.

A particular hard shove, paired with a “Now you've turned bitch," has Steve stumbling again, nearly losing his footing. It's a near miss that he doesn't faceplant into the floor with his whole gym-class watching. Breathing hard, Steve braces himself on his knees. He can't help but look up at Billy.

Whatever happened between them last night, it didn't help to soften the new boy up an inch. If anything, the fire and rage burning in Billy's eyes right now is a shocking contrast to the playful and soft looks Steve had gotten yesterday night. Without the warm haze of alcohol, the world was not that easy and forgiving. And the roughhousing did convey the threat that was burning in those ice-blue eyes easily. Should he spill one word about their little adventure last night, he would face way worse then some shoves on the court. The threat was real, but even while Steve could imagine all the trouble he would get in, Billy's body language, with his tongue out to his chin and his chest puffed up, was sending some mixed signals.

Really, Steve hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep for all this shit.

“Steve?”

The sound of Nancy's clear voice lets all thoughts of Billy disappear into gray smoke and Steve stands up a bit straighter, dismissing the posturing blond teen without a second glance to concentrate on the girl he loved – still  _ loves _ so much it feels like dying.

“Nance?”

He hates that his own voice sounds so raw. Seeing her like that, standing at the side of the court, messenger bag over one shoulder, her brown eyes imploring and sharp like always like nothing might have happened – it's more gut-wrenching than any stupid taunt and insult could ever be.

“Steve, do you have a moment?” Her beautiful eyes turn pleading. “I really need to talk to you.”

“I-” 

“Shove it, Bitch.”

Still stuck in the progress of figuring out what he wants to say to his maybe-former-girlfriend, Steve freezes up with a big deer-in-headlight-stare, when Hargrove throws his arm over Steve's shoulders, firmly pulling him back against his sticky, naked chest. The sneer is clearly audible in Billy's voice and the arm lodged around Steve – nearly hooked completely around his neck – feels like a hot brand of possession.

Nancy looks as taken aback as Steve feels, but gets her bearings back way faster than he does; he's still just standing there, too flustered for words. Having a strong, muscular body nearly draped over him, being enveloped into that heavy, earthy smell he had come to grow used to last night, made it nearly impossible to form any coherent thought.

“I wasn't talking to you, Billy.” Nancy's voice is cold and dismissive.

“You're not talking to Harrington, either. Shot your chance last night, your highness. Now get your prissy ass out of the gym, Wheeler. We have practice.”

Everyone around them seems to hold their breath, even the coach is stunned into silence. Nancy presses her lips into a thin line, looking at Steve oh so reproachfully, causing him to shrink back against Billy's solid chest even more. Her eyes seem to accuse him of spilling a secret, of walking around telling everyone at the party. And that's not true. Steve didn't spill a word, doesn't even know how Hargrove knows, but with every moment she keeps her sharp, disappointed eyes on his face, Steve wishes more and more for the ground to swallow him whole.

_ Useless – worthless – alone, you deserve to be alone.  _

It's Nancy's voice, it's his father's voice, it's the chorus of bodiless voices from the shadows that take Steve's breath away, making his hands shake.

Then Nancy turns her back on him – takes that stare away – the same moment Billy jostles him a bit, and the spell is broken. Steve takes a deep breath, then another, and starts to feel human again. Hargrove breathes with him, anchoring him to reality. While the game picks up around them, Steve's eyes fall shut, fully concentrating on the strong rise and fall of the chest pressed against him.

Billy hums a bit, nearly a purr. It's anchoring. The cheek that rubs against his hair is a bit rough but feels calming, makes a pleasant shudder run through Steve's body. So does the soft brush of slightly chapped lips against his neck and -

Struggling out of Billy's grip wide-eyed, Steve can only stare at him. The blond teen looks as stunned as Steve feels, nose slightly scrunched up, biting his bottom lip. His pupils are blown wide.

“What the -?”

“Harrington? Need a moment?"

The coach interrupts his question and Steve has to look down to hide his burning face, nods, hoping the gesture comes across as thankful.

“Alright. Just go ahead and shower. Practice will be done soon. Hargrove, keep an eye on him. You're too violent on the court today, anyway.”

They both open their mouths to protest but the Coach has his back already turned, yelling at Martin Anders to not hog the ball like a fucking gremlin. Billy scoffs and stalks away. Steve has a moment to think that this is it, that he'll be abandoned for the second time, eyes following Hargrove's retreating back but Billy stops outside of the court and waits. He stands there all pissed and flustered, hackles raised, but he waits. So Steve follows.

The short walk back to the locker room is awkward and silent. As far as Steve can tell, Billy is staring ahead unwaveringly, not sparing him a glance. And Steve checks more than once, short fleeting glances to the side, too confused to openly look, too curious not to dare catch a glimpse.

Maybe whatever he had imagined feeling was just that – imagination? With that much stress and that little sleep, it was most definitely possible that his mind had played tricks on him. And wouldn't that be hilarious? Being that touch starved to even fantasize about that little bit of contact.

As plausible as that self-degrading concept sounded, it did not explain the dumbfounded look on Billy's handsome face. And yes, the curse might force Hargrove to feel attraction towards him, but as bad as it would be to lose control like that, that would be uncalled for. The moment the door to the room swings closed behind them and they are finally alone and away from prying eyes and ears, Steve is ready to ask, to talk about it all calm and nice but Hargrove just grabs his shoulders and pushes him forward with force, making Steve tumble face first into the row of lockers, only catching himself on his forearms at the last second to prevent a seriously broken nose or a concussion. His need to fight, to protect himself kicks into overdrive and he wants to swipe around and snarl at Billy, but he only gets as far as looking over his shoulder, before a sure, hot hand presses between his shoulder blades, keeping him in place. The contact makes his skin prickle with goosebumps.

“Hargrove! What the fuck!”

His arms strain to press back against the suffocating pressure, but Billy has a few pounds of muscles on him, leans into him with his whole weight. Steve's arms shake, his shoulders cramp with the effort to not budge an inch, too stubborn to give into his need to be touched without any form of a fight. Magic prickles under his fingers, invisible but powerful, licking against his knuckles. It would be so easy to throw Hargrove off, to end whatever is happening here but Steve can’t bring himself to act. Billy's hand in the middle of his back is so sure and warm, so centering.

“That's not funny...” It’s barely a whisper, but it's loud enough to be heard.

“Hmm. No. it's not.”

Billy's deep voice is a smooth rasp against his ear, followed by hot puffs of breath. And suddenly Steve's face is on fire, his mouth getting dry, the stunning spell on his lips reduced to a shuddering exhale. He tries to buck back against Billy one more time, away from the locker, away from the hot body that is boxing him in.

“You can't-” he starts, but his voice dies out on a soft moan when Hargrove presses further, sinking against him with all his weight, enveloping him into sticky hotness and the heady and overwhelming smell of lust. This time the hard, pulsing arousal pressing against his lower back is not just a trick of Steve's imagination.

“Fuck, pretty boy. You smell so fucking good. Could eat you up - god.”

Without hesitation, Billy goes for his neck, pressing his nose into the crook behind his ear and taking a deep breath, practically purring on the exhale. His hips rut against Steve's ass in a little jerky, involuntary action, making Steve's knees feel like jelly. Finally, Steve's arms give in when he feels a hot, wet tongue pressed against his hammering pulse point. Sinking against the dented locker door in front of him, Steve hisses when the cold metal touches his overheating cheek. Billy follows him without losing even a hair of contact between their bodies, pressing him completely against the surface. His hands go to Steve's hips, a hot brand that burns through the fabric of his shirt. It's so hot, so hot, but not enough, Steve clawing at the unforgiving surface in front of him while Billy yanks at his shirt. They both moan when his hands finally find Steve's naked skin. It feels like a brand. Like a mark that he will never lose again.

“Billy- Fuck. What are you doing?”

Steve is shocked by how wrecked his own voice sounds.

“Shhh. Just let me-”

Billy presses his nose into Steve's sweaty hair next, inhaling deeply a second time. He shudders against him and Steve has half a mind to wonder if he put something addictive into his hair this morning, maybe grabbing the wrong bottle from the essence shelf, but no. All he can smell on himself is Nepeta.

But all thoughts disappear the moment Billy yanks on Steve's green gym shorts without any finesse, just hurried drive and lust, getting them just low enough to expose his lower back and the curve of his ass. They are in the boys' locker room at school and Hargrove has been a total asshole to him all day and anyone could just walk in on them; his arm still feels sore from yesterday night – but none of that matters when Steve feels pulsing wetness rub up against his skin when Hargrove rumbles out a moan like he just elevated to the greatest type of pain.

With a litany of breathy curses, Billy starts to rut against him in earnest, his hard cock rubbing against Steve's lower back and between the cleft of his ass, pressing the dry fabric against his sensitive skin and forcing a leg-numbing shudder out of him. Steve can just take it – gladly takes it – while he is held in position by two powerful hands, angling his hips just right, guiding him back against Billy's body. The cold locker door feels nice against his overheated cheek while Hargrove presses his lips back to his neck, licking and biting and branding him hotter than any branding iron ever could.

It's impossible to hold in the moan any longer when the blond starts to come on his back, hot strings of cum splattering on Steve's sweat-slick skin under his shirt, Billy's hitching breath against his ear. It sounds like a growl, like a purr, all soft and possessive and Steve feels like falling, like his knees will give out for good and he's lightheaded when Billy spins him around and just drops to his knees between Steve's wobbly legs, freeing his straining cock and putting his lips on him before Steve can even register what's happening.

The sight of Billy on his knees, eyes blissfully closed, droplets of sweat running down his overheated skin makes Steve brain short circuit for good. Every breath and moan is ripped from him while Billy gives him his benediction and puts his clever tongue to good use. It should be embarrassing how close Steve is to coming already but he couldn't care less. He fists his hand in the sweaty blond curls as a warning, but it only makes Billy moan around his throbbing cock and he sucks even harder and Steve can't hold it any longer.

Steve curses up to the ceiling while he comes down Billy's throat.

They are both still catching their breath when Hargrove clambers back to his feet. Steve expects awkwardness or maybe some bullshit slur so he's immensely surprised when Billy leans into him, pressing his nose back against his neck, just resting there. His humming sounds like a pleased purr, his voice all raspy and rough.

“You smell so fucking nice.”

“'s just Nepeta.”

This feels nice, Steve decides. He could just fall asleep, feeling safe and content for the first time in  _ days _ . He has to force his eyes to stay open, because they are still in a public space and he can hear the coach blowing his whistle to end today's class.

“Nep- what now?”

“Hmmm... it's also called Catnip.”

While Steve is still contemplating if he's allowed to put his arms around Billy, the blond boy slowly looks up, an unreadable expression on his face. It's some kind of bizarre mix between horror, amusement, and disbelief.

“What the -? You put catnip in your hair?”

“... Yes? It helps with... “ –  _ insomnia and anxiety and headaches _ – "t just helps."

They don't get a chance to discuss Steve's choices of hair care any further because their teammates burst into the locker room, leaving only enough time for Billy to step back and for Steve to get his shorts up and halfway decent.

Hargrove slaps his arm and saunters into the showers, shaking his head all the while and snarling when Tommy throws an arm around his shoulders. “Personal space, Hill!” leaving Steve satisfied but utterly confused.

~~*~~

How ‘ _ wanting to drive to Nancy's to apologize _ ’ the next day had turned into ‘ _ going on a hiking trip with Dustin Henderson of all people _ ’ had turned into ‘ _ fearing for the life of three kids in an old bus in the junkyard _ ’ is utterly beyond Steve.

He had just wanted to drive over to the Wheelers to bring his maybe former girlfriend red roses to make nice and maybe make up, even though none of it's his fault and he should not be the one to apologize. But Nancy is upset with him for wanting to be normal. For wanting to be like anyone else in his life for once. She can fucking try holding Barbara Holland's shadow over her head to weigh her down, but Steve is the one is seeing her broken body wail in the night. And he's sick of it.

Learning about the return of the monsters that still haunt his dreams had not been anywhere on any to-do list for today. Or ever. He would have turned around and run, hiding in his house where the old protection spells his mother had once cast were still strong and potent. But instead, he gets dragged head first back into the mess. Not that Dustin gives him any other chance. Sometimes the stupidity of little kids is mind blowing. No one in their right mind would even contemplate keeping an ugly, interdimensional lizard just because it was made out of as much soft and useless goo as Henderson's brain obviously was. 

As if that's not nearly too much for Steve's nerves, they get joined by two other kids in the most chaotic and dangerous place. The junkyard. Steve just hates the junkyard. He's not able to see ghosts, but his third eye makes him somewhat affine to the presence of spirits. There's the old wrecked car that had belonged to the Mayers - the father had ended his and his children's life by wrapping it around a tree. Far at the left is a patch of rotten brown grass and wood that has a dark shadow looming over it which made Steve's skin crawl with goosebumps. There is that old empty fridge, decorated with some kids stickers and graffiti that smells of decay and a nauseating rot that only he can perceive.

He finds them the safest place possible, away from all the lurking and sinister shadows, in the rusty old school bus that's parked on the right side between some rubble and old furniture. The kids fortify it with planks of wood and metal that they find lying around while Steve sets up the meat-trap for whatever form of monster Dart will be now, after having gorged himself on so much steak. And hopefully only steak, not another poor cat.

The sun is already setting when the four of them finally hole up. There are some protection spells scratched into the old metal walls in between graffiti, done whenever no one was looking Steve's way. Without any ingredients or some preparation time, it's the best he can do. It's not nearly enough for his nerves to calm down, but it'll be enough to buy them a few moments, should they need them.

After a few minutes of silence, of exchanging looks and dragging their feet over the cold floor, Steve finally learns that the redhead that Dustin and Lucas both keep making heart eyes at is named Max. He hadn’t bothered asking before, it hadn't seemed important. But maybe it's nice to know alongside whom he will be devoured by monsters. She’s from Cali and apparently Billy Hargrove is her stepbrother. She doesn’t look at all thrilled about it, and Steve has to wonder if they get along. Probably not.

Shadows dance behind the barricaded windows, flashes of movement and darkness that leave the gathering fog untouched. Steve strains to see between all the broken pieces of Hawkins through the looming trees. Even while All-Hallows-Tide has finally passed - he had celebrated its end last night with his new feline friend by lighting another big fire and burning traditional spices and offerings - the curtain to the world behind the shadows would need some time to reweave its strength; one tiny tear must have been enough to spill Dart over into their world. Hopefully, he's the only one of his kind currently stalking around their lair.

“Why is he so quiet? You think he's out there?”

Dustin looks vaguely unsure while he asks that question. A question Steve has no possible answer to. He can hear Max and Lucas talking overhead from their lookout spot on top of the bus. It’s not the safest plan, but someone has to see what's going on and all the wood and planks against the side of the bus made it nearly impossible from inside.

“Don’t know, buddy,” Steve gets to his feet. “Maybe he had too much meat tonight.”

A strong, prickling feeling tells Steve that they are not alone, that there is something else outside between all that junk besides dark spirits. It's lingering. Waiting. Hunting. He has to do something as long as they have the advantage and are focused and sharp. The kids might get tired soon and so will he. Something tells Steve that this monster has way more patience than they do.

With his mind made up Steve climbs out of the bus. The kids go frantic behind him but he tells them as calmly as he possibly can that they should stay put and shut the door. Max voices her worries for Steve’s sanity aloud and really Steve is with her on that one. But going on the offensive is the only option they have. His nail bat is no good in close quarters, so should the monster dog get them in the confinement of the vehicle, they are as good as dead. 

The magic runes carved into his bat start to glimmer in the surrounding darkness, just some barely there traces of light. Steve feels the boost of magic washing over his fingers, up his arms, draws strength from it. He will forever be thankful to Jonathan for picking this weapon, for handing it over into his care. The oak wood is a strong base for any magic Steve has to offer, is right up his alley and taps into the connection he has with all things nature. The strengthening rune is that much more powerful for it and Steve knows he will barely miss any hit because the rune for  _ Luck  _ is located under his right hand, burning into his skin.

He can hear the hydraulic door of the bus close behind him, the slow hiss loud in the otherwise eerie silent night. Steve’s arms shake in anticipation while he calls out to the dark forms waiting in the shadows. He plants his feet. On the other side of the meat that’s part of the trap, a big lumpy chunk of shadow breaks from the darkness, slowly stalking near.

The creature that unfolds from the dark is absolutely hideous. Steve takes one look and knows that it will get added to the freakshow of his nightmares. It reminds him a lot of the monster he fought with Nancy and Jonathan last year, something different of the same kind, crawled out from behind the veil.

“Steve! Steve, behind you!”

Lucas’ urgent yelling alerts him to another monster that’s crawling toward him. Steve squints really hard, sees the shadows move. His veins feel like they are filled with ice, slowly crawling up his arms into his heart. There are more. There are way more than what he could possible deal with, magic or not. He will die here, Steve is sure now. But he will take as many of these abnormalities with him as he possibly can, they will have to rip the glowing bat from his cold, bloody hands.

He raises his bat high b, waiting for the first attack.

One moment Steve is on his feet, getting swarmed by a handful of letal monster dogs, the next moment he's jumping out of the way of a speeding car crashing through the gate and charging into the junkyard like a wild beast, the roar of the engine like a battle cry. It mows over three of the monsters without effort, the blue hood getting painted black with goo and blood. The remaining dogs howl in agony and terror when their pack members fall and Steve can feel the passing of their simple souls ripple through his skin. He nearly chokes on it, on the realization that these are still living things they are killing, most likely driven by a way greater force than themselves.

The openin g of the driver's side door pulls Steve from the haze of seeing too much, feeling too much. He blinks twice, taking a big breath, and looks. Even after recognizing the car, it’s a mild shock so see Billy Hargrove standing there, hair for once perfectly clean and curled, shirt open to the navel under his leather jacket. Like he was dolled up to go on a fancy date. And isn’t that just a hysterical thought to have while facing down the fate of t getting mauled by monsters.

“What the fuck, Harrington?”

Billy looks way more outraged than should have any right to be, but then maybe not. He just killed three monsters with his car. 

Before Steve can think of an answer, the kids start to shout from the bus, distracting both of them more than actually warning them. The remaining monsters dogs are rounding up for a second assault, gathering on Billy's side of the junkyard.

“Get your ass over here, Hargrove!”

“I swear to -”

“Over here, NOW!”

Thank god for small blessings, Billy finally does what he's told, hurrying around the car. He seems absolutely unconcerned about the dimly glowing bat in Steve’s hands but they have way more pressing matters to attend to. One of the dogs lunges from the pack, shooting right over the hood of the Camaro, leaving claw marks in his wake. He and Hargrove spring apart to have the bizarre monster drop between them. Its paws haven’t even hit the ground properly when Steve gets the first hit in, bashing it to the ground. Hargrove is cursing beside him, the kids are still hysterically yelling, but all of that is drowned out by the terrifying scream the monster howls to the sky while nails punctuate his face over and over again. The rush of blood in Steve's ears makes it impossible to hear, impossible to think apart from  _ ‘kill it before it kills someone’ _ . He is dimly aware of Billy yelling his name but can’t process it, can't -

Suddenly he is roughly pushed to the side, stumbling and falling hard on his ass. Steve can only watch in shock as Billy - his hands still outstretched - is knocked off r his feet, a monster barreling into him from over his car. Ha can see its horrible mouth opening, sees the black goo and spit flying. The monster digs his claws into Hargrove's shoulder with a howl of victory. The blond's pain filled screams finally snaps Steve out of it. 

Instincts kicking in, his magic reacts on its own, gathering all the energy from around him in a sizzling wave before it explodes outwards, the expanding magical shield powerful and blinding, there and gone in a blink of an eye. The creature from another dimension had been ripped off of Billy by the power so opposite to what it is and then ripped to bloody shreds.

Steve can hear the ghostly howling of the other monsters while they retreat. He can only hope his magic has thrown them off for good, because he has not a spark of energy left, completely drained in his attempt to save Billy's life.

Billy, who is lying on the floor unmoving, body horribly distorted into impossible shapes, the leather jacket obscuring his back and head from Steve's view is covered in blood and goo. Billy, who is not breathing.

“Billy!”

Max stumbles to a halt beside her brother, falling to her knees. Tear tracks cover her dirty cheeks and her hair is a mess. Steve wants to pull her away from the sight, wants to protect her from having to look at such a gruesome scene. But he feels numb all over like his head is slowly filling up with cotton, all his energy gone. 

“Shit. Fuck! Don’t you do that to me again, idiot!” her voice is as pleading as it is angry.

The way Max rips at Billy's clothes is strange, like she's shifting through fabric, just loose clothing without any flesh in it. She comes up with a golden chain that the blond always wears and puts it into her jacket pocket, then she bundles up the brown leather jacket to hold it in her arms. It moves, shifts. Two icy blue eyes stare at Steve from the protective cocoon of the jacket.

Steve wipes his sweaty hair back from his eyes, blinks. Blinks again. A black cat blinks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a ride! The (not so secret) secret has been revealed!  
Let me know if you enjoyed the chapter!  
See you all in 2020! Have a great start into the new decade! <3


End file.
